Ironic
by hattalove
Summary: She looks like an angel; like he'd always imagined she would if he ever got the chance to make her his, to wake up to her blonde hair spread over white sheets and glowing in the morning light. Too bad she's marrying Finn. Also known as 'the one where Finn and Quinn get married and Puck is left to drink with his best friend's brother'. Puckurt with a side of Finn/Quinn.


Quinn looks beautiful.

Puck doesn't want to notice, doesn't even want to _look_, but with everyone's eyes fixed on her as her Dad is walking her down the aisle, he can't help but stare.

She looks like an angel; like he'd always imagined she would if he ever got the chance to make her his, to wake up to her blonde hair spread over white sheets and glowing in the morning light. The stark brightness of her dress hurts his eyes – that's why they burn with tears, it's like looking at the Sun for a little too long.

She's literally shining - and she has every right. This is her wedding day, after all, the day she used to dream of since she was a little girl, staying over at Puck's house while her Mom was working overtime and showing him a whole array of pretty white dresses with fluffy skirts that she had for her dolls.

Even back then, Puck had thought she was special. He kept ranting about her to anyone who would listen; how pretty she was, how beautiful her voice when she sang her teddy bears to sleep. How her hair twinkled in the sunlight on lazy Sunday afternoons on the Puckerman backyard, drinking lemonade and kicking her legs in the clear water of their pool.

She was always his Sun; something that was always there, too far to touch and too painful to look at sometimes, but he'd always known she was there, wanted to reach out and touch her, cradle her in the palm of his hand and never let go. He wanted to be the black tux to her princess dress, the tan skin to her alabaster, the dark hair to her blonde, everything she'd ever need and want and love about life.

Too bad she's marrying Finn.

Finn Hudson had always been – and probably always will be – Puck's best friend. He's big, kind-hearted and completely clueless, and Puck couldn't blame the guy for stealing the love of his life, especially since he doesn't know. Puck had put on his suit, took his camera, plastered on his practiced smile and snapped pictures all the way through the ceremony; like maybe looking through the lens would give him some more distance, give him a place to hide and stop making every blink of Quinn's blue eyes hurt, deep and raw in his head, chest, heart.

When they're saying their 'I do's , Finn's face lights up in his trademark dopey smile, overflowing with happiness so obvious a blind man would notice. He pushes a shiny platinum band onto her ring finger, brow furrowing a little with concentration, the tip of his tongue almost peeking out, and Puck hears a few scattered laughs.

He has to admit – it would be pretty adorable, if he couldn't feel his heart breaking in two. Or more, if he let it, but he's saving that for when he's alone, safely locked away from any expensive breakable objects.

There's flower petals flying high up in the air, swirling, falling down and getting caught in the breeze, almost like the doves Finn told him his brother – the wedding planner - had wanted to release. Distracted for a second, Puck looks around, expecting to maybe see another freakishly tall dude towering above all of them and clapping in congratulations – something, he realizes, everybody is doing and he probably should, too, or he could just hide behind the camera again – but nobody stands out. He'd never seen Finn's brother – the dude is apparently off at college in New York, and had been at some fancy boarding school before.

Quinn passes him in that moment, her dress stirring the air and not sparing him another glance, eyes only for her _husband_, now that they're lawfully wedded and only a few hours from leaving on a honeymoon – Maui, twelve days, really, really expensive, paid by a currently smiling and wildly clapping Burt.

Puck gets up, standing by the end of the row until it clears out, watching all the grannies limp outside into the bright sunshine, straightening to relieve their backs and feel the rays on their faces, like sunflowers in a field. In fact, he stays until all the adults and children, the priest and the organist file out before leaving the protective shadow of the church, where at least the cold was keeping everything a little less painful, a little less real.

There, outside, people seem to have formed some sort of a very haphazard row, flowers in their hands, swarming the small space with a mix of colors that might just be too bright; it hurts Puck's eyes, makes them fill with tears again as he retrieves his bouquet from the car, a bunch of red tulips that, looking at them now, seem to be the exact same shade of red as Quinn's lips.

He shuffles to what he supposes is the end of the row; watches Quinn and Finn accept handshakes and hugs and kisses and flowers, both of them glowing, she still holding on to her wedding bouquet with one hand, the pale pink roses almost getting lost under the swarm of yellows and blues and reds.

He won't really admit it to himself (and hey, what is this whole day, if not a giant lie wrapped in denial, anyway?), but he's dreading his turn. When it finally comes, everybody else slowly filing into cars and heading for the old castle where the reception is being held, the aren't many more people than the three of them standing in front of the church.

With one last, long look at his feet, Puck raises his head; his eyes falling into Quinn's blue ones like so many times before. He smiles, or at least tries to – he'd given up control over his features long since he woke up that morning – extends the hand gripping his tulips hard enough to crush, then envelopes her small shoulders gently in his palms, trying to ignore the way her skin feels perfect, and kisses her on both cheeks, barely whispering "Congratulations, Quinnie," into her ear. She smiles back, just as bright as so many times before that day, just like the Sun that's shining high up in the sky. There's understanding in her eyes, but Puck doesn't think she understands. She never would unless he told her; there's no way she could know she was the love of his life, not just a silly schoolboy crush that will pass, not without him opening up and confessing.

Which, in the end, was the entire problem. He never took his chance – watched Finn swoop in and charm her with his adorable stupidity, watched her fall in love and fall away from him, right into his best friend's outstretched arms.

He moves on; shakes Finn's hand first, before he decides he's being a dick for no reason Finn would know of - this is supposedly the happiest day of his life, after all. Puck grabs him in a rough hug, arms around Finn's shoulders and patting his back. He's thinking he loves them both, and fuck his wasted heart and his feelings, as he's grunting "I'm happy for you, bro," and pulling away, trying not to wipe at his eyes in hopes that they won't notice.

Finn grins and winks, holds his fist out for a bump like the kid he still is inside (and, well, on the outside as well, usually) and it feels like old times. Like the summers free from school they spent hiding out in the Hudsons' tree house that Carole built. Finn grumbling about mowing the grass while rubbing at the green stains on his cheeks, Puck talking about Quinn's visit earlier in the week and the way her hair glowed in a new way when her mom pulled it back into a ponytail. It feels bittersweet, for a moment; then, the bitter wins over and Puck has to fight the bile rising in his throat as he watches them get into their car.

* * *

The reception is beautiful. Puck probably shouldn't have expected anything less – it's Quinn's wedding, after all – but he can't help but be a little amazed at the flower decorations and seemingly never-ending white drapes curling around the pillars of the ancient ballroom.

He's one of the last to arrive and spends another ten minutes trying to park his Chevy; by the time he actually enters and takes it all in, it's almost time for the reception to start. Puck recovers quickly, keeps close to the wall, and walks over to where the only remaining empty place is gaping, like a gap in a row of immaculately dressed teeth.

When he looks to his left, he discovers he's pretty close to Finn. Puck figures he shouldn't be surprised – he is the groom's best friend of over twenty years, after all. Unfortunately for him, it also means he has a perfect view of Quinn's beautiful, radiant face from where she's seated to Finn's right. The happy couple spends a few seconds whispering something into each other's ears, grinning at the chorus of 'aw's that echoes underneath the high ceiling of the room, and then they're up, Finn holding her hand high up and close to his chest, leading her out for their first dance as a married couple.

Puck has seen the two of them dance many, many times – it was the way every night out with the two of them usually ended. The DJ in whatever club they decided to duck into would get more and more sentimental with the passing hours, and by midnight every other song was some singer or other crooning about love and promises and forevers. After Puck's experience with love, they usually just made him feel vaguely uneasy to his stomach, but Quinn managed to always pull Finn onto the dance floor for at least two songs, even though his dancing left a lot to be desired.

Puck had gotten used to just averting his eyes, feeling like an intruder on their happiness, but right now, sitting in a horrible straight-backed chair in a room full of people, he can't seem to be able to look away. The sight of them, tall against short, black against white, clumsy against gentle, is mesmerizing; their movement graciously elegant as they glide around the floor, and Puck realizes Finn must've been taking dance lessons. Puck's eyes follow them from one side of the room to another, the spotlight on them, and he swears he can feel the whole room holding its breath at how beautiful a pair the two of them actually make. They're not teenagers anymore, and it's finally out there plain for everyone to see; they're adults, prepared to face whatever life throws their way, putting up a strong front because they have each other. Finn's grown out of his gangly limbs and video game nights spent eating chips and chatting about football – Quinn's grown out of her holier-than-thou attitude, the hunger for influence and reputation she'd had in high school, and the hard-set lines around her mouth are gone.

It seems as though everybody's changed for the better; all the people he'd considered friends in high school are off somewhere, studying at college, working steady jobs or, in Finn's case, getting married. It seems like Puck is the only one who's all the same, still in love with the same girl, living in the same town and cleaning pools, the same Lima loser he'd been back at McKinley. It's not a good feeling at all.

While Puck reminisces, gets lost in thought once again, the song ends and everybody's standing up and clapping – he follows, movements somewhat automatic. Quinn's holding up her dress with one hand, rushing over to the table where her bouquet is lying. When she picks it up, some of the more eager guests are already lined up in the back of the room, gesturing around excitedly and jumping in place to see how high they can go. Puck scoffs; they're pathetic. He would be all too glad to just stay sitting, but the bride's eyes are burning a hole in the back of his head. He stands up reluctantly, squeezes between some thin, dark-haired guy and Quinn's aunt Clemence and realizes he's in the front row a second too late.

The next thing he knows, there's a lot of clapping and whistling and shoving and a bunch of roses is flying through the air. Somebody bumps into him, hard, when they're trying to get more into the front, and somebody else pushes him in the opposite direction. His arms get pinned by his sides and everything's happening in slow motion, even though it's probably just seconds. He raises his arms in the air and starts making his way through the bodies, intent on just getting out, and then there's one more shove, two more pushes and somebody climbing his back – and his hand somehow closes around a thick bunch of rose stems.

The chatter dies out, replaced by applause. The strange fog hanging to Puck's brain falls off and there's suddenly enough space to rest his elbows by his sides, and that's when the flowery smell hits his nose.

There's a bouquet of pink roses – Quinn's wedding bouquet – in his hands, a few of the leaves crushed, the white bow a little lopsided, but still as beautiful as the bride herself – and he's caught it.

Puck looks up, panicked, and his eyes collide with Quinn's blue ones. She's smiling, winking at him, clapping along with everybody else and then the music's on and he's lost in the crowd. Nobody sees him close his eyes in one last attempt to hold on to his composure; nobody sees him lose the fight and shoot out of the room towards the bathrooms, leaving the stupid bouquet as far behind as possible.

Fifteen minutes later, he's back, breathing steadily in and out, face dripping with cold water that disappears into the collar of his shirt. He didn't cry – for some reason, even though the tears are there, a beat behind his eyes just as steady as the beating of his heart, he can't. Maybe he will, later, when he's at home with just the four walls and his guitar, suit wrinkled and masks falling away; but not now. He still has to get through the evening.

He finds his way through the many couples occupying the dance floor, dropping his jacket onto his chair and loosening his tie, now that the official part is over. There's a bar just a couple of feet away and if there's something he could use, it's definitely a drink. The hotel they're all staying at is not so far that he won't make it on foot, anyway.

By the time he makes it over there, there are several women at the bar, two of them very blatantly flirting with the bartender. The others are nursing their tall glasses of champagne or white wine, scanning the room with predatory looks Puck was very used to seeing in his teenage days, and he immediately identifies them as single. They make him a little sick - although that also may be all the other things that have happened since he woke up that morning.

He slumps onto a stool and orders a double scotch, his gaze automatically slipping to where Finn and Quinn are attempting to cut the five-layered wedding cake. One corner of Puck's mouth curls into a smile without him even noticing - Finn looks so concentrated on holding his hands over Quinn's in just the right way, biting his lip and squinting.

"You love her a lot, don't you?" a voice suddenly says to his right. Startled, Puck turns around – a guy is standing next to him with a glass of red at his lips, one of his eyebrows quirked up in question.

Puck looks him over a few times. His hair is perfectly styled into an elegant coif, not one hair out of place, and his skin glowing alabaster underneath the crystal chandeliers. He's wearing a very, very expensive looking suit, shiny shoes, a white shirt and a blue tie that brings out his eyes.

Puck very nearly forgets to breathe when he catches them; their color is startling and yet somewhat calming at the same time, like all the sapphire depths of the ocean swept over him in a mere second and drowned him, trapping him underneath the surface when he can't look away. They remind him of Quinn's – that's probably why he's reacting in this completely ridiculous way.

Taking a deep breath, he quirks and eyebrow in response and resolves to keep his cool no matter what. "I'm probably supposed to know you, eh?" is what comes out when he speaks, and it sounds unsure even to his own ears.

The guy smiles, his eyebrow smoothing out, the wary lines Puck didn't even realize were crossing his face disappearing, and he suddenly looks years younger, innocent and, Puck's going to slap himself later for thinking it, _beautiful_. He puts his empty glass on the bar with a soft click, shoulders relaxing, and hops up on the stool next to Puck's. There's absolutely _nothing_ attractive about the way his slacks hug his thighs, almost obscenely tight.

"I don't think so. I just recognized the look on your face, so I thought I'd come by and say hi."

"And you are?"

He grins. "Kurt Hummel. I don't know if he was polite enough to at least tell anyone my name, but I'm—"

"Finn's brother," Puck interrupts him and _stares_.

Of course, he'd known that Burt and Carole have only been together for a couple of years. He'd known Finn's brother isn't his brother by blood, but he didn't expect him to look anything like this.

Not that there's anything wrong with him, not at all, but...by Kurt's looks, he isn't the kind of guy Finn would have a lot to talk about with, and Finn seems to adore his little big brother above almost everyone else; judging by the fond looks Kurt keeps sending over to the table laughing over Finn's cake-cutting skills, it goes both ways.

Puck shrugs mentally. Looks can be deceiving; he knows.

"That's right," Kurt says, when he sees Puck had gotten over the first shock. "You know him pretty well, then?" he asks, obviously curious, his eyebrows creeping up higher on his smooth forehead, eyes sparkling blue-green.

It's Puck's turn to laugh. "Yeah, you could say that. I'm Puck," he grins.

There's a whole range of different emotions changing on Kurt's face at the speed of light, but after a second, it settles on mild surprise.

"_The_ Puck?"

Puck snorts, shrugging. "How many others are there?"

Kurt gives him a soft smile in return. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I've heard a lot about you, just didn't expect you to be so…" he waves his hand in the air, trying to come up with a word. After a few seconds, he just gives up and shrugs.

"Well. It's nice to meet you anyway, _Puck_." He says Puck's name in a way that makes shivers race down his spine and he almost misses the hand Kurt's extending. His grip is firm, the skin of his palm dry but smooth, soft to the touch; it's probably just Puck's imagination, but the lights in the room seem to brighten a little when he smiles.

They let go, and Kurt clears his throat before gesturing at the bartender and ordering another glass of wine. "So tell me, how come my brother's best friend is in love with my sister-in-law?" he asks then, his whole body turning towards Puck, down to his polished, no doubt designer, shoes.

Puck sighs. He thinks about lying for a second, but Kurt has the look in his eyes – like he _knows_. Puck downs his scotch in one gulp, mirrors the other man's position and shakes his head a little, maybe wondering at how fucked up his life actually is.

"Don't really know what it's like not to be," he settles for saying, and there's that look of understanding again.

"I'm sorry," Kurt says, and he means it. Puck shrugs in answer.

"It isn't anybody's fault. Except maybe mine, for being an idiot and not telling her."

"I think she knows," Kurt lays a hand on his shoulder. "Quinn has a way of reading people."

Puck shakes his head. "She doesn't. Not everything, anyway. She's the love of my life, she doesn't know _that_."

There's silence from Kurt for a moment, and Puck raises his gaze from where he'd been determinedly picking the countertop apart with his eyes. The other man is just looking, not much of an emotion in his face, like he doesn't quite know what to say.

"You know, I used to have the biggest crush on Finn," he settles for in the end, grinning. Puck chokes on his own spit.

"_Excuse me_?"

"I know, I know. It sounds really wrong when I say it now, but back in high school, I was just another lost kid and when I came over to McKinley for my French courses twice a week, Finn was almost always there. He passed me in the hallway, coming from football practice, and if any of his friends tried to pick on me, he stopped them. He was kind of my knight in shining armor, you know? And he can also be very charmingly dumb, sometimes."

"That's…I mean, wow."

There's a pale pink blush coloring Kurt's cheeks – it's might be even more adorable than Quinn's laugh.

"Yeah, I know. But it's all gone now. We're brothers, that's it," he smiles wickedly. "It's better this way. I get to tease him and talk him into coming over and making me pancakes if I happen to be in Lima and sick."

Puck grins back, the vision of Finn at a stove stuck in his mind, and opens his mouth to ask another question, but right in that moment, the music changes and Kurt perks up. Puck recognizes it as the horrible howling song from the chick movie about some huge ship and groans internally. Kurt, on the other hand, seems to be almost falling off his chair in excitement.

"Let's dance," he says suddenly, blue eyes huge and hopeful and shiny on his face, smiling so wide his teeth are showing.

"Me? With you?" Puck raises both his eyebrows in surprise.

Kurt looks like his face is about to fall, but he somehow shakes it away, shrugging his shoulders. "Nobody's going to mind. They all expect me to dance with a man, anyway."

"So you _are_ gay?" Puck blurts out, and how the hell did_ that_ come out of his mouth?

There's amusement plain on Kurt's face when he glares back. "I had a crush on _Finn_," he says. "Plus, don't pretend like you didn't notice my _blatant gayness_."

There's something off about the way he says that, but Puck's going to pick at that later because hey, the song is playing and Kurt wants to dance to it. In a spur of something he doesn't want to put a name on, Puck hops off the stool, brushing imaginary dust off his pants and tightening his tie, then straightens out a hand in Kurt's direction.

"May I?" he chuckles.

Kurt's smile is radiant as they walk out onto the dance floor, fitting just fine in the midst of the dancing couples.

"Thank you," he says, close to Puck's ear, since the music is louder where they're standing now. "It's just, this is my absolutely favorite song, Finn hates it, but I talked the DJ into playing it for me. I didn't want my effort to go to waste," he laughs and then he's standing right there, in front of Puck, and he has to admit the other man looks gorgeous (what? Puck's bi, he's known that much since he was about twelve). He links his left hand with Kurt's right, not stopping to marvel at the way they slide together effortlessly, and sneaks his right arm around Kurt's waist, pulling him closer.

As they start swinging to the sounds of piano and strings, Puck remembers what he'd wanted to ask. He takes a breath and bites it out – doesn't think why would he even want to know, but, well.

"So, you've got a boyfriend?"

He feels Kurt stiffen a little, but then another couple bumps into them, pushes him further into Puck's arms, and the looseness in his shoulders returns as he leaves out a big sigh.

"See anyone standing around, watching us and looking jealous?"

Puck thinks he should probably take that as a no, but he looks anyway. He spots Finn, frozen mid-step in a dance with his mother, looking at the two of them and blinking, like he can't believe what he's seeing. Puck sends him a grin before looking back down to meet Kurt's eyes.

"Not really, aside from Finn."

There's a chuckle against Puck's collarbone, and Kurt's hold on him tightens a little. "I just got dumped."

"How recent are we talking?"

"This morning."

Puck has to grimace a little in sympathy. "Ouch, I'm sorry. I could beat him up for you, if he's around."

Kurt full-out laughs and it doesn't really sound like he's very upset. The song ends and they look at each other, frozen for the second it takes for another song to start playing. It's _Send Me an Angel_ this time, and they're already out here, so who cares, right?

"He isn't," Kurt smiles when he feels the light pressure at the small of his back, Puck trying to draw him back into his arms. "Actually, that's why we broke up. He's working all the time, but he was supposed to take a leave and fly out here with me, and, as it turns out, he _forgot_."

Puck squeezes his hand gently, urging him to go on.

"It's not like we were in love anymore. I don't think we've actually been in a relationship for the past couple of months, we barely saw each other and when we did, we were at each other's throats all the time. It's better this way, at least I can actually look for someone new without feeling guilty."

They sway in silence for a while and Puck is stubbornly ignoring the rage bubbling underneath his skin at the thought of Kurt finding _someone new_. He's just, you know, feeling protective or some shit.

When the song comes to a close, the DJ – Artie, actually, but he's wearing a lime green shirt with a purple tie and orange suspenders and Puck decides he doesn't know him – announces it's time to speed up a little again, and most of the couples leave the floor. A shared look assures Puck that no, Kurt's not interested either - he leads him back to the bar, not letting go of his hand, which he only realizes when they're occupying their stools again. It doesn't look like Kurt minds, but Puck still pulls his own hand away like he's been burned, busying it with another glass of scotch he's ordered.

Kurt, of course, is sipping on a glass of wine and looks perfectly content, but then his gaze catches on the golden liquid Puck's busy pouring down his throat, and he gestures to the bartender for two more. Puck blinks at him, a little surprised.

"I think we should get wasted," Kurt says, in answer to the question in his eyes. "I'm theoretically after a breakup, and you're probably having the worst day of your life. Plus, it's free."

There is logic in that. Puck grins wickedly, orders a whole bottle, and his last coherent thought is something along the lines of _Finn's brother is awesome_.

It's only much, much later he will realize that he hadn't even thought about Quinn for at least an hour.

* * *

The hotel alarm clock says it's two in the afternoon when Puck wakes up. There's sun streaming into the room through the half-shut blinds and the first thing he registers is how much his head hurts. His mouth feels like he'd swallowed one of Nana Connie's sweaters, too, his shirt is unbuttoned, and the room is really fucking cold. Puck tries to wiggle his way out from underneath whatever it is that's covering him, and then everything screeches into a halt.

There's a warm body plastered to his left side, and his left arm is thrown over somebody's shoulder, pulling them close. That's probably why his neck feels damp – somebody's breathing on it.

Trying not to panic, Puck thinks over last night. Considering how much he'd probably drank, it's a miracle he remembers as much as he does – there was a wedding, the reception, the constant throbbing pain in his chest, then Kurt, and dancing with Kurt, and drinking with Kurt, he remembers them singing _We Are the Champions_ and stumbling on their way to the hotel, holding on to each other's shoulders, but that's apparently where his memory had decided to take a leave.

Okay, then. Unless he's reverted back to his high school ways and went picking up ladies in the hotel bar, the person peacefully sleeping next to him should be Kurt. Ideally a fully dressed Kurt with a trail of drool in the corner of his mouth, not looking adorably ruffled or, God forbid, like he'd just spent the night having loud and uninhibited sex with Puck – he just wouldn't explain that in front of Finn.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself – which turns out to be a futile effort, mind you – he slowly opens his eyes. There's a lot to take in around the room; the coffee table had apparently been somehow turned over and deposited in the open bathroom door, and the rug formerly located in front of the bathtub is now hanging in the closet. There's what appears to be a cover made of hotel towels tied together on the couch, the TV's on with the sound turned low, Puck's shoes seem to be holding up one corner of a dresser and his suitcase is precariously balanced on an upturned armchair. When he looks down at himself, he immediately realizes the reason he'd been so cold – he's lying on top of the covers, no socks or shoes, and all his clothes are soaking wet. It all looks like a scene from _The Hangover_.

Unable to put it off any longer, and now curious as well, Puck finally looks to the left and tries to catalogue what he's seeing.

Kurt is lying on his side, body half-hidden underneath a pile of couch pillows, but there's what seems to be miles and miles of his alabaster skin still on display. His hair is a mess, he's pouting a little, one of his legs is tangled with Puck's and his head is comfortably resting on Puck's shoulder, his right arm curled around Puck's neck, the fingers of his left splayed out on Puck's chest.

Okay, good news. It's Kurt, and he appears to be wearing clothes.

What strikes Puck next, though, are _precisely_ the clothes. They're obviously several sizes too big, and after a second when everything seems to freeze, Puck recognizes them as his own gray t-shirt he'd brought as pajamas, and his own black sweatpants.

Not good. Not good at all.

"Uh…Kurt?" he decides to bite the bullet and wake him up now - if they slept together, he'd theoretically have enough time to pack his most important belongings and flee to China before Finn found out.

Unfortunately, Kurt is apparently a deep sleeper – at the sound of his name, he just scrunches up his nose (which, not adorable _at all_, thank you very much), huffs and buries his face in Puck's chest.

Puck is not starting to panic. It's just that the whole left side of his body is falling asleep. "Kurt, come on. Wake up!" he shakes the other man's shoulder a little, and finally gets a response.

Kurt's forehead wrinkles when he opens his eyes, obviously confused. The blue orbs are a little misty as they look up at Puck's face, but they catch the few stray rays of sunlight along the way and sparkle; Puck has to consciously remind himself to breathe again. It doesn't feel wrong, or scary, or anything bad, really – it almost makes him think he wouldn't mind waking up like this again, but he manages to stomp on that thought before it forms.

"Where are we?" Kurt's voice is hoarse and he looks around, then down at himself, then follows the pale lines of his limbs where they're tangled with Puck's and shoots to the other side of the bed like he's been burned.

Puck takes a second to be glad Kurt recognizes him, at the very least. He somehow has a feeling the other man would not appreciate waking up in a bed with a stranger -when Puck looks at him properly, he's got muscles as well, and just, _ouch_.

"Hey, chill. We're in my room. I think," he scratches the back of his head, ignoring the cold at his side where Kurt's warm body had been.

Kurt seems to look around – his eyes widen a little at the state of the small space – before his gaze comes back to Puck.

"Right. So, um…"

"Don't ask me if we had sex. I don't know."

Apparently, Puck's brain-to-mouth filter and hangover don't really mix. It's a little worth it, though, when Kurt smiles and lets out a soft laugh.

"We didn't," he shakes his head, and Puck's whole body sags with relief. Kurt notices; grins. "I just refused to sleep in my suit, so you gave me some of your clothes."

"Is that why _my_ suit is completely ruined?"

Not that he really cares. It was a gift from his mother – didn't fit him that well anyway.

"And how come you remember everything?"

Kurt raises one perfectly plucked eyebrow. "You don't?"

"Last thing I remember is _We Are the Champions_," Puck replies with a shrug. Now that he thinks really hard, he might've caught a glimpse of Finn in the hotel lobby and he was pissed, for some reason…

"Wait. Don't even tell me I puked on Finn's shoes."

Kurt bursts out laughing, a loud, genuine sound that somehow seems to soothe Puck's headache. He doesn't have time to think about that, though; he should still pack and flee to China, because Finn is going to _kill_ him.

By now, when they're twenty-three and well on their way to becoming actual men, Puking on Finn's Shoes is a well-regarded tradition amongst their friends – especially Mike and Sam find it hilarious.

It started in high school, really – the first time they ever went out with fake IDs and got drunk. Finn was the biggest of them all, and the ten beers everybody else drank didn't have as much of an effect on him. He ended up trying to drag them all to their respective houses while avoiding cars and mailboxes and other things that seemed to jump in their path, and did pretty well, but he made the mistake of leaving Puck (who might or might not have sneaked a few shots of vodka with the beers) for the last.

Of course, Puck ended up puking all over his front lawn, his mother's 'Welcome' doormat and Finn's brand new Cons.

From then on, it continued in much the same fashion. Whenever they had a guys' night out, no matter who was the most thrashed one of them all, it was Finn's shoes (and his pants and socks, sometimes) that ended up ruined.

Puck had sworn he wasn't going to do it at Finn's wedding.

Well, oops.

"I'm afraid so," Kurt finally calms down enough to give him a reply, and Puck snaps back to reality. "But I wouldn't worry too much, him and Quinn were headed up to their room," he smirks, but then his face falls and he bites his lip, suddenly apprehensive.

Puck shrugs and rubs a hand over his face – Finn and Quinn are married now, he better start getting used to it.

"Yeah," he just says. "So, um…"

"I'm sorry," Kurt blurts out, a tiny frown creasing his forehead, like he's pissed at himself for saying it.

"What for?"

"You know…tangling with you like that. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable, or…um." He's waving his hands in the air now, but he doesn't seem to be aware.

"Hey, dude. It's no big deal."

Kurt looks up at him disbelievingly from underneath his crazy long eyelashes, and Puck fights hard to keep his mind on track.

"Seriously. I don't mind. I'm not gonna up and yell at you because you got your gay all over me or something, if that's what you're thinking."

Judging by the way Kurt flinches, then blushes, then stands up and starts looking around for his clothes, that's exactly what he's thinking. Puck scowls – he wouldn't have pegged Kurt as a guy who's insecure about these things; especially since he went to some preppy expensive high school where every other dude is probably gay.

Looking back at him, jumping over upturned furniture, the t-shirt he's wearing sometimes riding up and revealing smooth, white skin, Puck kind of forgets where he is and lets his mind wander for a while. He knows Kurt is going back to New York, probably that same day, but Puck can't help thinking it would be cool if he hung around. He likes Finn's brother – he's somehow distracting enough that Puck doesn't have to think about his heart breaking a little more every time he sees his best friend kiss the love of his life. He's funny, too, and incredibly confident in who he is, at least on the outside. Puck could use an influence like that, what with all the stupid insecurities he has left over from high school.

"Um…would you mind if I took a shower?" Kurt asks from where he's standing by the TV, a pile of neatly folded clothing in his arms.

Puck shrugs. "Sure, go ahead."

Kurt smiles gratefully, clutches his clothes tighter to his chest, and pads over to the bathroom door on his bare feet. He pulls the upturned coffee table out of the way, turns on the light, throws Puck one more smile and disappears inside.

Of course, it only occurs to Puck that Kurt probably has his own room with a perfectly functioning bathroom about ten minutes later. It's not like he minds or anything.

By the time Kurt re-emerges, Puck has managed to dig out another pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to change into and put the room back into some vague resemblance of order. He's just trying to wedge his shoe from underneath the dresser when he hears the lock click and automatically looks up.

Kurt's still barefoot, dressed only in his slacks and an unbuttoned shirt. He doesn't even seem to notice the collar getting wet from the drops of water wandering out of his hair and there's a bit of color high in his cheeks. Puck entertains the thought of just jumping him, because he can be the world champion in denying things, but he can't ignore just how attracted to the younger man he is.

Kurt clears his throat, a faint blush creeping up the back of his neck. "Um, I was wondering…do you maybe want to go get some lunch?"

Oh, well. It seems like maybe Kurt actually might want to spend some more time with him. Or he's feeling guilty for falling asleep draped around Puck, but either way, Puck's not going to complain.

He grins, standing up and gathering a few of his stray pieces of clothing in a lump – a very pathetic attempt at what Kurt had done earlier.

"Sure thing, dude. Just let me shower first," he gestures to the bathroom door behind Kurt's back. He waits for him to get the hint, then waves his hand around the room in an invitation for Kurt to do whatever he feels like doing, and locks himself inside.

As it turns out, a hot shower is exactly what he needs. He stands underneath the spray for good ten minutes, just letting it wash over him and massaging his tight muscles, for once letting himself admit he enjoys the strong scent of hotel shower gels and shampoos. When he steps out, one look into the mirror reveals bags underneath his eyes and rough stubble on his face – he spends another fifteen minutes shaving and brushing his teeth, then putting on his clothes and by the time he unlocks the door to come out, it occurs to him that maybe he should've been a little quicker, since he actually has a person waiting for him.

Kurt is sitting on the bed, legs tucked underneath him and a blanket over his shoulders. Puck has to smile – it's the first time he's seen him like this, but it already feels right; familiar.

Until his gaze falls to the small framed picture Kurt is holding in his hands.

Puck clears his throat awkwardly, the air wafting out of the bathroom behind him suddenly feeling too humid and his throat too dry. Kurt's gaze snaps up, caught, and he sets the picture back on the bedside table, immediately looking apologetic.

"I'm so sorry! I was just sitting here and then I—"

"Hey, chill. It's okay," Puck cuts him off. He doesn't know how he feels about Kurt looking at a picture of his daughter, but then again, if he wanted to keep her a secret, the first thing he does whenever he's in a strange place wouldn't be putting a photo of her somewhere he can see it.

Kurt doesn't look like he quite believes him, but he doesn't try to apologize again. Instead, he bites his lip, eyes sad, and Puck's whole body twitches to somehow wipe that look off his face; it doesn't feel right.

"That's…that's Beth, isn't it?" is his next, quiet question, and Puck sighs before throwing his wet towel on the floor and walking over to sit next to Kurt. Despite everything, he can't help a smile at the sound of his daughter's name spoken so carefully - but not in a way that implies she doesn't really exist.

"Yeah, that's her." The only girl he's ever loved more than Quinn.

"She's beautiful," Kurt smiles, and Puck has to push down on the instinct to say _You are, too_.

"She is," he says, instead, and his voice must get a little nostalgic, because next thing he knows, Kurt's hand is on his shoulder, comforting and sending waves of warmth into his suddenly chilly skin.

"I can't imagine how hard it must be for you."

Puck shrugs and blinks to make sure there are no tears threatening to fall. "I've gotten used to it. I mean, her adoptive Mom is the best for her. It wouldn't make sense to try and get her back…it would be ripping her away from everything she knows. Like this, at least she knows me, and she calls me 'Daddy'. I can visit whenever I want. I get to be there for her birthdays and ballet recitals and it's…better this way."

He believes it, he really does. Shelby is his little girl's home, the woman who raised her and was generous enough to let him be a part of their lives when he finally got a hold of himself in senior year.

Kurt is still smiling at him a little sadly, the corners of his mouth barely turned up. "They're not in Lima anymore, are they?"

Puck shakes his head. "New York, actually. Queens. I've only been there a couple of times, but I try to call at least twice a week."

"Queens? Really?" Kurt blinks. "That's where my apartment is."

That sentence, somehow, makes Puck crash back into reality. He's sitting here at three in the afternoon, talking about his daughter with his best friend's brother, and he's feeling things he's not supposed to feel for people he'd only met the night before.

And even if he didn't mind feeling them, Kurt lives in New York – that's where his plane is going to be headed at the end of the day.

There's a silence stretching between them, Kurt worrying his bottom lip like he'd said the wrong thing again. Puck clears his throat.

"So…lunch?"

* * *

They end up in a small Italian restaurant, barely two blocks from the hotel; it's a tiny place, with only a few round tables and two waitresses, everything decorated in red, green and white. It's a little late for lunch, and it's not crowded like it probably would've been an hour earlier; it's really, really nice.

After they both get their food and start eating, forks twirling in their plates of pasta, Puck suddenly remembers the state of the room he's going to have to check out of.

"So…what else did we do last night? I mean, after ruining Finn's shoes?"

Kurt chuckles a little and swallows his mouthful of spaghetti before replying. "Well, the first thing you did was declare you were completely wasted and jumping into the shower. With your clothes on."

Puck tries not to choke on the mouthful of water he's swallowing. "Yeah, I figured. I was kinda wet when I woke up."

"I think you got the rug in front of the bathtub wet, too, so you hung it up in the closet. Then we decided to watch TV, because, I quote, 'The shit they put on between two and six is fucking hilarious', but you were very concerned about ruining the couch, so we tied a couple of towels together," Kurt goes on. He's chuckling a little, his tongue darting out to lick at the now clean fork, and Puck's eyes most definitely don't follow the movement.

"I actually don't really remember what went on after that. I think you were doing handstands at some point, and then you've decided to climb into the ventilation shaft in the bathroom, but the coffee table got stuck in the door. I'm not entirely sure about that, though."

"Wow. I'm sorry, man. I usually give people a chance to talk to me for more than twenty minutes before I dump my completely wasted self on them."

Kurt laughs, and it's a beautiful, bright sound. "It was actually pretty funny. You were singing Beatles songs the whole time and then gave me three alternative outfits to choose from when I asked for something to sleep in."

Puck's most definitely_ not_ blushing.

"Yeah, I bring a lot of crap with me everywhere I go," he shrugs, stabbing viciously at an olive.

Kurt's laugh reverberates through the mostly empty restaurant, and they just chew for a while, smiling at each other like idiots from time to time. It reminds Puck of one of his first dates that he'd tried to go on in an attempt to get over Quinn.

When there's nothing but smears of sauce staring back at them from the white plates, Kurt wipes his mouth with a napkin and gets _that_ look on his face. Since last night, Puck had managed to learn it means he's about to say something he thinks he'll regret, but can't resist.

"So," the younger man clears his throat, "how do you feel?"

Puck scowls. "Uh…sorry?"

"Well, you know, after…yesterday," Kurt's waving his hands; he's nervous.

"Oh."

_Oh._

"Actually, I haven't really thought about it," Puck replies, and he's shocked to discover he's telling the truth. "Not yet, anyway."

He can already see himself coming back home to Lima, to his crappy one-bedroom apartment that he usually doesn't bother cleaning, chain-smoking all his secret stashes of cigarettes and spending a few days in a whiskey-induced coma. Then he'll probably punch a wall or two, go to the gym to let some of it out on a punching bag, go bug Carole for some comfort food, and by the time Finn and Quinn are back in town, he might actually be fine.

Kurt's gaze is understanding above the checkered tablecloth. "You can tell me to mind my own business, but…I still can't imagine how you must feel."

Puck's glad they've finished eating – if he'd had any appetite left, it would be gone by now.

"I've just gotten used to it. Most of it, anyway. It's been like that for years now – Finn and Quinn, the inseparable duo. I wouldn't get anything if I tried to force them apart, I'd lose my best friend, probably for good, and I'd lose her…and if I actually managed to get between them somehow, I would just make them both miserable. I'm not blind, I see how great they are together. I'm probably gonna be a godfather to all their kids," he tries to smile, but it probably comes out as more of a grimace, and he's almost sure it's sour.

"It's my own fault, for being fine lurking in the background until it was too late. We might've had a chance, but I screwed it up. And I screwed up myself."

Kurt honestly looks like he's about to cry. "What do you mean?" he asks, tentative.

Puck replies with a shrug, "I slept with everything that moved in high school - that's how I got Beth, but I'm sure Finn told you about that. I thought I was a badass, and it took me years to figure out I'm actually a whore. I fucked my pool cleaning clients. For money."

He doesn't really know what he's doing, dishing out all his dirty high school secrets to a man he barely knows, but it feels right. Kurt's eyes are big and blue and barely keeping in the tears and he knows he can trust him to keep everything to himself.

"I also had – still have – a shitload of abandonment issues. I mean, my old man walked out on us when I was ten, without an explanation, and my Ma has somehow always blamed it on me, so…" he shrugs again, "It's not like I'm not used to being tossed away after people get what they came for. That's not what happened with Quinn, I don't think she'd ever do that, but…it seemed to be the pattern whenever it came to me. I just assumed it would, and I didn't even try."

He's lost in the memories now; lost in the times he was fifteen, and sixteen, and seventeen, holed up in his room and playing guitar, writing songs about how rejected he felt and then tossing them in the trash, denying the tears he sometimes couldn't keep at bay.

He was a fucking emo teenager, alright.

The thing that makes him snap out of it is a gentle hand, covering his own. He looks up – Kurt's still there, crying openly now and embarrassedly wiping his face. He tries to convey a smile – it comes out small and shaky, but it's still like a flash of light in complete darkness.

"I'm sorry," Kurt sniffs. "It's just…you're a good man, you know."

Puck knows it's probably implied with Finn and Quinn and his other friends, but he doesn't think he's heard anyone actually say it. He probably hasn't, if the feeling that floods him to the tips of his toes is any indication.

He's suddenly warm all over – he can't quite believe that Kurt Hummel, whom he'd met about eighteen hours ago, is having lunch with him and crying over him and telling him that he matters. He can't believe this amazing, radiant being could even be bothered with listening to his stupid issues.

Puck's chest feels tight, and he doesn't quite know what to say.

Scratch that, he doesn't have a fucking clue. What do you say to the first person that's ever expressed faith in you while _crying_ about your life story?

"You know my first name?" is what comes out in the end; not quite what he'd planned, but probably better than awkward silence.

Kurt gives a watery laugh, slowly pulling his hand back, like he's not quite sure he wants to do it. Puck, for one, wouldn't mind him lingering a little more, just because it feels unexpectedly nice.

"Of course I do. Finn usually talks about you a lot, and I listen."

"_Finn_ knows my first name?" Puck retorts, and, as they both laugh, the _something_ that was charging the air between them, causing the trembling in Puck's chest, is gone.

Kurt gives his eyes a final wipe and gestures to the waitress. The bill comes within a minute and they argue playfully for a while before Puck concedes and lets Kurt pay – "For letting me take a shower in your bathroom."

They stay for a while more, finishing their drinks, and Puck helps Kurt into his jacket when they're stepping out into the chilly afternoon. Only then does Puck notice it's actually a little slippery, even though the sun is high in the sky, and he wonders how did they make it to the hotel the night before, drunk as they were, without faceplanting into a ditch somewhere.

Kurt's cheeks and ears redden in less than thirty seconds when he stands on the sidewalk and breathes in the fresh air, waiting for Puck walk outside. He looks adorable, but also cold, and Puck wraps his scarf around Kurt's neck, his gaze challenging, daring Kurt to say something. To Puck's pleasant surprise, the younger man just smiles and buries his chin in the wool.

When they finally start walking, Kurt immediately slips and lets out a squeak. Puck can't help it – he bursts out laughing, until he has to straighten out his own arms to keep himself from falling. Kurt looks very offended at the laughter, and proceeds to walks on like a newborn foal, jumping around to find less slippery patches.

The strategy doesn't quite work out, and after he takes a particularly big jump, he loses his footing again, almost landing on his ass – fortunately, not quite, since Puck is right behind him, arms outstretched and catching him. Kurt looks up and sends him a blinding smile before standing up.

"Come on, Princess," Puck offers his arm after Kurt's done checking for any damage to his clothes. The younger man latches on like a leech, still squeaking whenever his foot slides in the wrong direction, but they manage to make it back to the hotel without falling.

It's warm in the lobby when they walk in, and Kurt unwraps himself from Puck's body, then hands the scarf back with a grateful smile. They ride up in the elevator in silence, looking at each other here and there, sharing little smiles.

It's the most content Puck's felt in a long time, and the feeling only intensifies when they walk out on the fifth floor and Kurt accepts his offer for a ride to the airport.

He doesn't want to think about what he's going to do after.

* * *

It's almost five when they meet outside on the parking lot, both of them pulling their suitcases and frowning at the annoying sound of wheels on cement. Puck's car isn't that big, but it's only the two of them, and they manage to stuff all the luggage inside before opening the doors and climbing in themselves.

The Chevy's been there since yesterday afternoon, and everything, from the seats to the steering wheel is cold – the first thing Puck does after putting the keys into ignition is crank up the heat; the second is picking a radio station.

"Neil Young?" Kurt raises and eyebrow while tugging off his gloves. Puck raises his own eyebrow in response, but doesn't change the slow tones of _My My Hey Hey _before speeding off the lot.

He's determined to do two things: first, not let the 30-minute car drive pass in silence, because talking to Kurt is taking his mind off everything else, and second, ask Kurt for his phone number. He doesn't want this to be the last time they see each other, and he can only hope Kurt feels the same way.

"So…when does your flight leave again?" he tries. He remembers the time very well, because that's where today's every coherent thought stops and gives way to the darkness that inevitably lies ahead, but he has to start a conversation with something.

Kurt spares a glance for his wristwatch, before furrowing his brow a little. His nose scrunches up in the process and again, _not adorable at all_.

"In two hours. We'll make it there on time, right?" his tone is a little worried, and Puck has to smile.

"Of course we will. We'll be there in half an hour, tops."

"Good, that's…good." Kurt sounds a little awkward.

They let the road pass behind the windows for a minute or two. Then, Kurt takes a deep breath and Puck can't resist looking over to see his expression.

It's a one he'd already seen today.

"You know, I think…" Kurt clears his throat, "I think you should come to New York with me."

Puck has to grip the wheel hard to keep the car on the road. "W—what?" he sputters.

"It's just a suggestion, I mean…You're probably going to drive to Lima, then get drunk and spend the two weeks until Finn and Quinn come back moping. I don't think you should be alone, and my place is unnecessarily big, since my Dad insisted, and you'd be close to Beth, and…" he trails of suddenly, probably realizing his rambling.

Puck is horrified for a while – he actually can't find anything wrong with the idea. He doesn't have any jobs lined up for a week and a half, since it's nearly winter. He'd get to spend more time with Kurt, he could go visit Beth once or twice, and he'd have a place to stay, so it's not like it would affect his budget terribly.

"I'm probably crazy, huh," Kurt says, after Puck takes a little too long with his answer. "We just met last night, and we don't know anything about each other—"

"It's not that," Puck interrupts him. "I've spilled all my darkest secrets to you, and you've managed to handle me while I was drunk, so I'd say we know each other pretty well already."

He has to look at Kurt, then – just in time to see the blinding smile on his face. A minute later, they're pulling into the airport parking lot, and Puck turns to say that sure, he'd love to come, and he's really looking forward to it, and thank you.

Except when he's looking right into Kurt's hopeful face, his sparkling eyes wide and excited in the waning late afternoon sun, a feeling of panic he hadn't felt in a long time rises in his chest. He can feel his mouth forming the next words, but can't really see where in his brain did they come from.

"I'd love to, Kurt, but…" Kurt's face falls, and this isn't what Puck wants to be saying, but he doesn't seem to be able to stop himself. "I have to work tomorrow. It's one of my last jobs before winter, I need to get as much money as I can."

"I understand," Kurt nods, but it's not difficult to see how disappointed and hurt he is, even though he's trying to disguise it.

Maybe Puck's not the only one who's been having strange feelings ever since their first meeting.

"I would love to come another time, though," his mouth is saying now, most probably in an instinct to take the hurt away, but what's done is probably done. "We should exchange phone numbers."

Kurt smiles, nods, and extends his hand in a silent request for Puck's cell. Puck does the same, programs his number into the shiny, expensive-looking Nokia, then hesitates at the line that says 'Name'. He's been Puck to everybody ever since he was old enough to speak and pick his own nickname, but maybe that's why he wants this time to be different.

In the end, he quickly taps out 'Noah' on the touchscreen and hands the phone back before he can change his mind.

They're smiling at each other in the cooling car – Kurt's expression still a little hollow – but both of them slowly realize it's almost time. Puck doesn't want to let Kurt go – he wants to keep him by his side for as long as it takes to forget about everything else, just the two of them against the world in drunken escapades and slippery streets and Italian restaurants. He doesn't want to think about what it means, he just wants Kurt _there_.

It's the younger man who finally breaks the silence while smoothing down his hair. "I guess…I guess I should go, then. Don't want to keep you here too long, you have a long drive ahead."

Oh, right. Driving back to Lima. Puck had totally forgotten about it, maybe wishing it wouldn't happen and he'd be allowed to stick to Kurt for a little while longer.

He could've been – too bad he's a fucking chicken.

"Yeah, um, yeah," he replies intelligently. "I'll help you with the suitcase," he says then, and he's opening the door before Kurt can say anything, because he knows the other man doesn't really need any help.

The later he gets left on his own again, the better.

By the time Puck gets back to the car (one awkward goodbye, an even more awkward hug, and a promise to call each other later), it's looking like it might start snowing. Nothing but cold and the lingering smell of Kurt's colognewelcome him when he opens the door and gets inside, shedding his coat in the process. Puck closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and cranks up the heating.

It's going to be a long drive.

* * *

Thankfully, it doesn't take Kurt long to call. Puck's glad, because he's sure he would've never picked up the phone on his own, no matter how much he wanted to.

He's only about halfway through his first bottle of beer when the phone rings and the display lights up, saying 'Kurt' with a heart next to it. Puck almost spits the beer all over the couch in his haste to answer, patting the cushions at the same time to make them look a little more presentable, even though nobody can see.

"Hello?" he asks, finally, with the phone at his ear, and he hates how breathless he sounds.

"Noah? Hi. Is this a bad time?" Kurt sounds strange, but at the same time exactly the same as he had just a few hours earlier, promising to call back at the airport. Puck also can't not notice the way Kurt says his first name - like it's something fragile that could possibly break and blow up in his face.

"Kurt! Hey, um, no, not at all - I mean, it's a great time," Puck stammers, cringes and mentally facepalms. The laugh from the other end of the line sounds somewhat relieved, though.

"Great. Um. I'm just calling to...I don't know, see how you're doing? You're in Lima already, right?"

"Yeah, I got here about half an hour ago. You don't have to worry, I'm fine. I think," Puck says, frowning at the bottle of whiskey with a glass that's waiting on the coffee table.

"Good," he can hear the smile in Kurt's voice. "That's good. Now that's out of the way, I wanted to tell you about this guy I met on the plane..."

Puck closes his eyes, smiles, and breathes out as he lies down and wriggles around for more comfort. Kurt's talking and talking, like they never even stopped. His ridiculous story is washing over Puck in comforting waves, and as he laughs, he finally feels a little warmth trickle back into his bones.

* * *

It doesn't take Puck long to develop a very unhealthy addiction to Kurt's phone calls. He's mostly sulking around his apartment, bored out of his mind - the pool cleaning season is over, and his winter gig as a bartender doesn't start for another two weeks - and every time his phone rings, the distraction feels like a beacon of light in a dark, stinking sewer.

Puck is not surprised to find out they can talk about anything. They gossip like old ladies, comment on everything that's on TV, and even when Kurt starts talking about fashion, Puck finds himself carefully listening, perched on the armrest of his couch like a curious bird, like he was listening to a detective novel instead of a detailed description of the cutest new Marc Jacobs sweater Kurt had just bought. Puck tells Kurt all the newest juicy details of Finn's life (like how he broke Burt's mower and tried to blame it on dry grass); Kurt always repeats that Puck's welcome whenever he decides to visit the City.

The speed at which the time flies is incredible. Puck is very soon settled into a routine - wake up, have coffee, watch pointless TV, wait for Kurt to call, talk to him for hours on end; simple as that. He rarely even thinks about the Jack Daniel's bottle, still unopened in one of the cupboards - and what's even better, he rarely ever thinks about Quinn. He doesn't really know how that happened, but he's not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It's only a week before he's supposed to start work when he gets the e-mail from Shelby. The subject line says _Hi, Daddy_, and Puck's chest constricts with emotion and pride. His little girl had written him all on her own.

When he tells Kurt that evening, there's a heavy silence on the other end of the phone, and Puck knows the other man is trying to tell him something. It's not like he hadn't thought about it himself.

And that's how, feeling completely crazy and completely free, Puck gets on a plane to New York and spends the entire flight munching on peanuts.

* * *

He doesn't really figure it out until a few months later, when he's having a night out with Finn and Quinn and watches them kiss. It's completely ordinary, from their usual drinks to the way Quinn touches her hand to Finn's cheek and pulls him up to dance when a ballad comes on.

Except for the heavy, hot feeling in the pit of Puck's stomach, the one he'd always assumed was jealousy. It's gone.

He's on a plane to New York barely an hour later with nothing but his phone, keys and wallet stashed into his pockets. It takes about two and a half hours, but by the time he lands, runs through security and hops into a cab, he still hasn't figured out what to say.

Then again, what is there to say? _Sorry I'm so late, I'm an idiot, I hope you're still single, I love you, please take me in_?

And, God. He's not sure he even _can _say it. It's been such a long time since he fell in love for the first time – maybe twenty years, even. He'd forgotten what it's like, the butterflies, the giddy rush of happiness whenever you see or hear _the_ person. His love for Quinn has been damaged over the years, a mangled corpse of something that used to be so honest and pure, and now that Puck's opened his eyes to see what's right in front of him, all beautiful and anew, he's not sure how to voice everything that's going through his head.

Especially not the fear – the way his hands shake so bad he can barely open the door when he's getting inside the cab.

Of course, this is Kurt. Puck knows Kurt. Knows him fairly well. Loves him like the completely crazy son of a bitch he is. Except, he also knew Quinn, back then when they were barely teenagers. He loved her with everything he was, and it might have been enough, if he'd let her know. As it was, the only thing he could do was watch from afar.

Well, this time, he's going after what he wants. It burns bright deep inside him, and Puck can only hope it's going to give him the right words to say; that it's going to be enough.

The cab comes to a stop in front of Kurt's apartment building, and Puck leaves a giant tip, too busy running up the stairs.

The door of apartment number five looks the same it had a few weeks ago – big, dark, and intimidating. This is the moment of truth, and Puck knows that. He's either going to end the night happy or completely crushed, getting wasted somewhere in a dirty bar.

He takes a deep breath and knocks.

There's nothing but silence on the other side. It's probably to be expected – it has to be really, really late or really, really early. Puck doesn't have a watch. After a few seconds, though, there's a quiet shuffling sound – Kurt dragging his bare feet over the floor – steadily coming closer. Puck is distantly aware of nervous sweat breaking out on his forehead, but he's not going to turn tail and run. He's _not_.

And then the lock is clicking, the chain rattling, and Kurt is opening the door in sleep-tousled hair and ratty pajama pants.

"Noah?" his eyes immediately widen in surprise. A slow smile blooms on his face, and he just…looks so beautiful. "What are you—"

"I love you," Puck interrupts. It slips out, just like that, almost like an instinctive response to seeing Kurt with all his walls down and just wanting him to know.

Puck blinks a couple of times, trying to catch up with his mouth.

"What?" Kurt asks, eyes even wider. "Noah, what are you…" he trails off. Those are not good words. He's supposed to say them back. Please. _Please._

"I love you," Puck repeats, steady and sure, the words giving off an exciting little shock on his tongue. They feel good; new and unusual, but good. "I just—I can't—I couldn't—" and to his horror, he feels tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. He's, once again, startled by how much he _wants_ this, and his whole body screams at him to just grab Kurt and never let him go.

"I couldn't not try," he gets out finally in a choked voice and makes himself raise his head, tears or not, to meet Kurt's eyes.

This is _so_ not the time to be a pussy.

Kurt is looking back at him with an unreadable look. It takes Puck back to the Italian restaurant – to the way he'd confessed everything about himself to a man who was basically a stranger, laid out all his fears and insecurities and didn't even think twice.

Huh. This has probably been a long time coming.

"Noah, I…" Kurt says tentatively. He doesn't sound angry – he doesn't sound happy, either. He's probably going to bust out the 'I like you, but…' speech, Puck thinks, almost ready to turn around and run somewhere to drown his sorrows in beer.

"Are you sure?" is the question that follows, and Puck is caught off-guard. Is he sure about what?

Kurt motions for him to come in, and Puck does. The familiar lavender scent and warmth immediately envelope him and fill his lungs with comfort.

"About…" Kurt starts talking again, waving his arms around to encompass the apartment, "all this. I mean, I'm…are you sure this is what you want? That you're not just, I don't know, substituting? Because I'm glad you want to move on, I am, but—"

Puck cuts him off with a kiss. He's not sure he read everything right, but the moment their lips touch, it doesn't matter. Kurt's breath is coming out of his nose in small huffs that break against Puck's cheek; he's making these perfect little noises, and his lips are as soft as they look. Puck threads his fingers through Kurt's hair, tilts his head for a better angle, and gets completely lost in the feeling.

It's like touching the Sun.

* * *

A few months later, Puck finds himself at yet another wedding. It's Carole and Burt's this time (although, actually it's a vow renewal, but it has a white dress and flowers and a cake, so it might as well be a wedding). Puck is wearing a new suit – one that Kurt helped him pick out, and that fits his body just right – and walks with his head held high. It's a beautiful, late summer day, love is in the air, and Puck's feeling so cheesily happy he's almost flying.

The ceremony is beautiful, and Puck feels sorry for not being at the actual wedding all those years ago. He can imagine young Kurt and lanky Finn standing beside their parents and smiling, and he can't help a grin of his own.

Kurt and Puck are seated right next to Finn and Quinn at the reception. Finn's still giving them bemused looks, but, all and all, everybody is having a great time – talking, laughing, eating cake.

And when the time comes for throwing the bouquet, Puck doesn't even protest as Kurt pulls him out and into the crowd gathered on the dance floor. He lets himself be distracted by a kiss, and then the bouquet is soaring through the air, right towards where he and Kurt are standing.

Puck doesn't even look over to check if his boyfriend's planning on catching it, doesn't really think; the next he knows, his fingers are closing over Kurt's on the rose stems.

This time, he smiles. _Maybe_, he thinks.

When Kurt beams at him, the blue dancing in his eyes and his cheeks dimpling, he amends the statement in his mind. _Maybe soon_.


End file.
